


Feeling One Way (And Acting Another)

by verushka70



Category: due South
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 11:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13123041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verushka70/pseuds/verushka70
Summary: "You and Smithbauer are..." Ray trailed off."Friends, yes," Fraser finished rather blandly. "We used to play hockey together when we were young."





	Feeling One Way (And Acting Another)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluehaven4220](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluehaven4220/gifts).



> Endless thank-you-kindly-s for [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/pseuds/Ride_Forever)'s great patience and assistance as beta reader... and as dSSS mod.

 

Ray tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the GTO impatiently. He suppressed the urge to honk the car’s horn long and loud, knowing that would 1) irritate Fraser and B) piss off the Ice Queen, who would take it out on Fraser, possibly slowing Fraser's departure from the Consulate even more. Since she had the power to make Fraser's life fairly miserable if she wanted to—though she didn't often take the opportunity—Ray figured he'd avoid giving her further reason to harass Fraser.

He stared longingly at the door to the Consulate for a moment before checking the time on his cell phone. Fraser was already running ten minutes late, which was unlike him. Thatcher must’ve had extra work for him to do, Ray figured. Or someone had trouble importing mass quantities of bark tea. Or something. He yawned so hugely he completely shut his eyes. When he opened them again, Fraser was standing at the top of the steps to the Consulate, talking earnestly with a taller, bigger guy, both of them in their winter coats.

Ray sat up straight when Fraser put his hand out for the taller man to shake, but he pulled Fraser into a tight bear hug instead. Fraser’s arms slowly went around the man. As his cheek pressed into the man's shoulder, his eyes closed in an indecipherable expression somewhere between longing and regret. Ray felt his stomach turn over as he watched, and his flopping heart skipped several beats.  
  
At last Fraser let go and extricated himself from the big guy's arms; the big guy seemed reluctant to let go, but he did, his hand lingering on the back of Fraser's neck in a strangely tender yet proprietary way. Ray felt his cheeks burn at the way Fraser seemed to lean into the touch. He said something else to his big friend, his expression reassuring, and then they both turned and came down the steps, Fraser toward the GTO, and his big friend towards an idling yellow taxicab.

Ray slouched in the driver’s seat, relief flooding him and calming his fluttering heart and roiling stomach. Fraser waved the taxi off as he opened the GTO’s passenger door, and Ray sat up straight, acting normal. Or as normal as possible.

“Friend of yours?” he asked neutrally as Fraser settled in beside him.

"You didn’t recognize him?" Fraser asked, slightly breathlessly, buckling his seat belt.

Ray shut his eyes and pictured the guy in his mind, but couldn’t place him. “Should I?” he asked, opening his eyes.

“That was Mark Smithbauer,” Fraser said, his voice a cross between wistful and proud.

"You and Smithbauer are..." Ray trailed off. "Close" wasn’t the right word. That hug had been more than "close." He knew Fraser and Smithbauer had been friends back in the Great White North; he'd read that case file, along with all the others. But that hug had looked like... more than...

"Friends, yes," Fraser finished rather blandly. "We used to play hockey together when we were young. He got in trouble with—”

“Fixing games, yeah, I remember,” Ray finished unhappily. “So now what's his problem?” He put the GTO in gear and pulled away from the curb.

“He’s trying to stay in the US on a visa that’s expiring,” Fraser replied. “The junior league coaching job he had ended.”

Ray snorted. “He should've thought of that before he got himself lifetime suspended from hockey.”

Fraser frowned. “He owned up to what he did. The punishment did seem a bit excessive. Hockey was the only thing he ever loved. Or knew, really.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him,” Ray growled, putting the car in neutral to brake for a red light. He thought of the intense hug between Smithbauer and Fraser and something tightened in his chest all over again.

"I'm not," Fraser said defensively. "I just—know him."

“Knew him,” Ray corrected shortly.

Fraser sighed and looked out the window, but didn't reply. Ray inhaled and then sighed too. “Pineapple pizza okay?”

“Of course,” Fraser agreed, but his distant expression and the way he gripped his Stetson in his lap made Ray clench his jaw.

* * *

“You got to be kidding me,” Ray grumbled as he pulled up to the Consulate two nights later. Fraser waited on the steps with Smithbauer, skates held by their laces in both their hands, and two hockey sticks in Mark’s beefy hand.

“Ray!” Fraser called happily as Ray pulled the GTO over and parked it.

"Fraser,” Ray nodded.

“This is my good friend Mark,” Fraser said. Ray couldn’t help scowling slightly at the note of pride in Fraser’s voice, though he didn’t mention Mark’s last name.

“Ray,” Ray said shortly, extending his hand.

Mark slung his skates—well, one skate of the two, tied together—over his shoulder and shook Ray’s hand firmly, nodding seriously.

Ray eyed the skates and hockey sticks. “Hockey, huh?” he asked.

“Indeed. I wondered if you would come with us,” Fraser said brightly. Too brightly.

Ray shook his head. “I can’t skate, Fraser.”

Fraser’s face fell slightly. “Really?”

Ray shook his head, feeling embarrassed. “If falling every ten or fifteen feet is skating, then I can skate. But I’d rather not.”

Mark squinted at Ray, then looked at Fraser. “Didn’t you say there were thirty-eight ponds in Chicago for skating and hockey?”

“I did, yes,” Fraser replied to Mark. To Ray, he spoke more quietly. “I’m sorry, Ray. Growing up in Chicago as you have, I just took it for granted—”

“Yeah, well, just like I grew up by Lake Michigan and never learned how to swim,” Ray sighed, “I grew up around thirty-eight ponds and never learned to skate, either.”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed and disappointed at Mark’s ability to participate in another activity that seemed to come naturally to Fraser.

Fraser looked expectantly—even hopefully—at Ray. “I have an extra pair of skates I think will fit you,” he said, inclining his head encouragingly.

Ray pictured himself falling again and again in front of one of the world’s best hockey players—and in front of Fraser—two guys practically born on skates. He shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he murmured. “I can drop you two off, though,” he added softly.

“You should come and watch at least,” Mark said. “We’re going to drive the pucks deep into snowbanks.” He smiled easily.

Ray frowned. He thought about past humiliating skiing holidays with Stella’s family where he'd fallen repeatedly—sometimes spectacularly, in a cartoonish cartwheeling of limbs, ski poles and skis—down the bunny hills while children one-tenth his age whooshed gracefully past him like Olympians until he gave up and went back to the ski lodge to get quietly drunk by the fire on alternating mulled cider and Irish coffee.

“I guess that couldn’t hurt,” he allowed. “I can get the hot chocolate or cider.”

He turned and the three of them went back to his GTO and got in. Fraser let Mark sit in the front passenger seat because of his greater height. Fraser and Mark chattered about past pond hockey games and spectacular goals, discussion of Mark’s professional career conspicuously absent.

By the time they arrived at the free park ice rink, Ray was clenching his jaw at their good humor and close past shared history. They were out of the car and lacing their skates before Ray had even locked the GTO up.

He spied a small beverage kiosk selling hot coffee, hot cider, and hot chocolate. Ray pulled his jacket tighter around himself and ordered coffee for himself and hot chocolate for both Mark and Fraser. He leaned an elbow on the counter as he waited for the beverages to be "made" — a dubious term for pressing a button on a machine—and watched Mark and Fraser chase a puck around the ice. Their speed and grace on their skates was enviable.

When the bundled proprietor behind him grunted, Ray turned to see their hot drinks. He gestured at the three of them. "Got a tray?" he asked. The old man sighed long-sufferingly and bent over in the tight space to bring up a small cardboard tray for Ray to carry all three drinks.

Ray headed rink side, glad to see the concrete path had been both shoveled and de-iced. Even the tough rubber tread on his boots would slide all over ice—not something he relished while carrying three drinks probably hot enough for a McDonald's lawsuit.

“Ray!” Fraser called, hockey stick in both hands held crosswise over his thighs. Ray settled the drinks on the bench nearby, then stepped over and leaned on the fence around the pond rink.

“What, Fraser?”

“You could come out on the ice in your boots,” Fraser suggested. “They would slide.”

Ray shook his head, his mouth set in a line. “You guys play. Your hot cocoa's here when you want it.”

Fraser’s smile faltered a little, but then Mark skated down from the other end of the rink, passing the puck from one side of his hockey stick to the other. He skirted Fraser in a quick whirl, ice crystals flying as he came to a stop.

“You got us hot chocolate?” he asked Ray.

“Yep.” Ray nodded. Mark skated over to Ray’s area of the fence and dropped his stick.

“Well?” he asked expectantly, gesturing at the hot cocoa drinks on the bench.

“Hold on,” Ray grumbled, turning and stepping back to the bench. He grabbed the two hot cocoa drinks and then turned back to Mark. Fraser stood next to Mark now, too, his hockey stick farther back on the ice. Ray handed each of them a hot cocoa and then picked up his coffee.

Mark swallowed and Fraser sipped and Ray’s coffee was too hot but it was just what he needed at that moment.

“That hits the spot,” Mark murmured.

Fraser sighed happily. When Ray glanced at him, Fraser's gaze darted happily from Mark to Ray. Upon finding himself observed, he dropped his gaze and his cheeks pinked a little. Ray glanced quizzically from Fraser to Mark and back at Fraser, wondering why he had blushed.

* * *

“Well, perhaps you could just keep him company while I attend this banquet with Inspector Thatcher,” Fraser suggested cautiously.

Ray squinted at him suspiciously. "'Keep him company’? What am I, rent-a-friend?"

Fraser frowned. “Of course not. I had no idea Inspector Thatcher's RSVP for the event included me until this afternoon, but Mark already had tickets to the game.”

Ray sighed, closed his eyes, and rubbed them. "It's not that I don't want to see the Blackhawks, Frase— of course I do —"

“Indeed, Ray. I'm surprised at your reluctance,” Fraser interrupted mildly.

Ray's eyes opened and narrowed. “The reluctance is about going without you, not about going.”

Fraser nodded in his cheerful I-knew-I'd-won-five-minutes-ago-Thank-you-kindly-Ray way. “You can tell me all about it later.”

Ray set his jaw and shifted his weight. “You owe me.”

“I expect a full report,” Fraser agreed companionably, clapping Ray on the back heartily before he returned to the papers on his desk.

* * *

Ray returned to their ridiculously fantastic seats (right behind the Hawks’ bench) with yet another beer for Smithbauer and a bottled water for himself since he was driving. The Hawks were losing but playing ferociously; the Leafs were winning but only by one goal; the game play was intricate, incredibly fast, and exciting; their seats were amazing.

Yet Mark looked miserable, hunched down in his seat and barely paying attention to the game. Aside from coming as a total surprise, it was also seriously killing Ray’s enthusiasm and beginning to get on his nerves.

“Here,” Ray yelled over the roaring crowd. Mark barely looked up as he grabbed the beer Ray held out and immediately took two large swallows.

Ray sat down and watched Mark look restlessly through the crowd filling the United Center stadium. After a moment, he leaned over and spoke loudly near Mark's ear. “Looking for someone?”

Mark looked at him, startled, but then shook his head. His jaw set and he looked down into his beer. “Looking away,” he barked.

Ray looked out at the ice, at the blur of bodies furiously chasing the puck down the ice, the way the Leafs’ players gracefully passed it between them and past Blackhawks, the spray of ice shavings as players stopped and changed direction on a dime. He looked at Mark. He sighed and leaned over to speak loudly by Mark’s ear again.

“Do you just want to go?”

Mark looked up at him again, but just prior to the expression of guilt that settled on his face, there was a look of gratitude and relief so blatant Ray’s heart almost went out to him. Almost.

He stood up, gesturing towards the exit. “Come on,” he yelled and turned to walk out towards the mezzanine where the bathrooms and food and beer vendors were.

Mark stood up too. Ray turned and walked out. Mark followed.

Out in the mezzanine, the roaring crowd sounds more distant now, they paused by the men’s bathroom.

“Thanks,” Mark said awkwardly, looking embarrassed but grateful.

“You should’ve just said you wanted to go,” Ray said.

Mark rolled his eyes. “Like I don't know you're a huge Hawks fan.”

Ray blinked. “You do? How do you know that?”

“Ben told me. He talks about you all the time.”

Ray suppressed a strange frisson of excitement and fear at hearing that. The irony did not escape him either; he’d been frustrated lately at how much Fraser talked about Smithbauer.

"Okay, yeah," he agreed. "But, I mean, you looked pretty miserable. I don't get it—if you don't like it, why'd you get tickets?"

Mark's expression darkened. “I didn't get them. They were complimentary. They're always complimentary.” He stepped closer to Ray, gripping Ray's forearm tightly. "I don't hate it; I _love_ hockey. I love _playing_ hockey. Sitting in the seats watching it—"

He cut himself off, abruptly dropped Ray’s arm, and turned away. He tilted his head back to guzzle down the rest of his beer, then tossed it angrily in the nearest garbage can.

It's killing you, Ray thought. He sighed. Looking away from Mark, trying to think what to do, he spied a father and young son, maybe ten or eleven years old, buying hot dogs and pops. As they picked up their food, the father said, “Let's eat it down here. By the time we get it all the way to our seats up there, it'll be cold.”

Ray turned back to Mark, who was turned away. Ray put a hand carefully on Mark’s shoulder. Mark looked over questioningly, and Ray gestured at the father and son trying to quickly eat their hot dogs.

“What?” Mark asked quietly.

“Nosebleed seats,” Ray replied softly. He reached into his back pocket and drew out the stub of his pricey seat behind the Hawks’ bench.

Mark observed what Ray did, and then nodded. He pulled his ticket stub out, too. Ray shrugged. “You do it.” He handed his ticket stub to Mark.

“They’ll recognize me,” Mark grumbled.

“Deny you're you,” Ray suggested. “I bet you're a pretty good liar.”

Mark gave Ray a shrewd look. “You don't pull your punches, do you?”

Ray's gaze was steady. “What's the point?”

Mark sighed. He shuffled toward the father and son and Ray followed slowly. Mark offered them the ticket stubs, explaining that they had to leave. The kid looked baffled, but the father’s eyes grew huge. He swallowed his mouthful of hot dog with difficulty, took a quick gulp of pop and then cleared his throat.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. Mark nodded. The man's expression grew slightly suspicious. “What's the catch?”

“No catch,” Mark said, looking at Ray questioningly.

Ray stepped closer. "No catch. We gotta go. You can have our ticket stubs. We want to give 'em to people who'll really…. enjoy them."

The father hastily wiped his hands on the paper napkins with his hot dog. "I…. I don't... I mean, thank you. Thank you very much. This is... really nice."

Mark gave him the ticket stubs, and the man looked down at the section, row and seat numbers.

“Behind the Hawks’ bench,” Ray added softly.

The man looked up, his mouth open and a slightly dazed expression on his face. Recovering himself, he prodded his son's shoulder. “What do you say?” he prompted.

“Thank you,” the kid dutifully replied through a mouthful of hot dog and poppy seed bun.

“You’re welcome,” Mark said, turning back toward Ray.

“Hey,” the man said, and Mark froze, but his expression looked pained, as if he'd been expecting it. “Aren't you Mark Smithbauer?” the man asked.

Mark glanced at Ray briefly, an indecipherable expression on his face. Then he turned back to the father and son. “I get that a lot,” he smiled. "I just look like him."

“Yeah, a lot like him. Well, thanks!” the father said.

“You’re welcome,” Ray said, turning away. He and Mark headed toward the exit.

* * *

The evening turned into babysitting although Ray’s opportunity to learn about his potential rival as he got drunker did not go unexploited.

“He's cut off,” Ray told the barmaid quietly as Mark finished his—what was it? twelfth? — beer. “Water, please.”

“Beer,” Mark sulked.

“Sure,” Ray lied easily. “After two or three glasses of water. So, you were saying you and Fraser—”

“Spent all our time together, yeah,” Mark slurred and nodded emphatically. "I mean, as much as his grandmother would let him.”

“So you must know him pretty well, then,” Ray said blandly.

Mark nodded vigorously, then thought about it, and shook his head.

“No?” Ray asked.

“Used to know him,” Mark modified.

“Yeah, but pretty well, right?” Ray repeated.

Mark nodded, then his nodding became even more vigorous. His expression was serious, but his movement was disconcertingly like a bobble-head. "Yes. Pretty well." Mark stopped nodding, and his gaze went distant. "Very well," he said softly.

  
The way he said it made the hair on Ray’s forearms stand up. A thread of jealous curiosity unfurled in his gut and straightened his posture a bit before he caught himself. Mark hadn't noticed, but Ray's experience at undercover kicked in. He suppressed his instinctual response to the intimacy in Mark's tone and relaxed back into his semi-slouched drinking buddy posture.

“So,” he asked, leaning lower and closer to Mark, shoulders brushing. “What exactly is ‘very well’?”

Mark groaned, closing his eyes. “God, you don't want to know,” he said, his voice trailing off into a whisper.

Ray glanced up at the sportscasters on the bar television but leaned harder into Mark's shoulder. “I want to know,” he murmured. "I don't just like women."

When he felt Mark's shocked gaze on his cheek, he turned and looked at Mark. “What?”

Mark's big hand felt its way up Ray's arm to his shoulder and then to the back of his neck. It was warm and moist, almost sweaty. In any other circumstance, Ray supposed, he'd have appreciated the handsy aspects, but right now it was just a means to an end, and anyway it seemed to be more a function of Mark's drunkenness and surprise than interest.

“A cop?” Mark whispered. “Really?”

“Really,” Ray said, sucking on the straw of his seltzer water.

"Huh," Mark said. "I—I guess I can tell you then."

“Sure you can,” Ray encouraged, looking back up at the TV.

“Well,” Mark began hesitantly and very quietly.

For the next hour, Ray chewed his straw and sat and listened and occasionally interjected ‘listening words and phrases’ like ‘Uh-huh’ and ‘Really’ and ‘Go on’ to encourage Mark to spill his guts.

* * *

Fraser strode up to them in his dress Serge, already reaching into his Stetson for bills to give Ray. Ray waved them away. “He had one beer here; the rest has been water. Put it away.”

Fraser hesitated, tucked the money back into his inner hat, and then his gaze rested rather too long on Ray’s arm around Mark’s shoulders, Mark’s arm around Ray’s waist.

“Ben,” Mark’s red eyes opened and happily attempted to focus on Fraser.

He attempted to lurch forward and almost pitched both he and Ray off their bar stools, had Ray not pulled him back and Fraser not put his hands on Mark’s shoulders.

“Hello, Mark,” Fraser said, his formal tone barely betraying a hint of impatience.

“Let’s just get him in the car, Frase,” Ray said.

Fraser sighed. “I'm sorry, he isn't usually—”

“He hates hockey, Fraser,” Ray said, sliding off the bar stool and helping Fraser manhandle Mark off the bar stool to his swaying feet.

Fraser's head turned in a precise and indignant move. “He does not,” he corrected.

“I’ll rephrase,” Ray said, positioning himself beside Mark and putting an arm around his waist. He draped Mark’s arm around his own shoulders.

“I _hate_ hockey,” Mark said dreamily.

Fraser's mouth opened in disbelief and then shut silently as he got on Mark's other side and arranged himself similarly to Ray. His glances at Ray were both seriously worried and amazed.

“He hates _watching_ hockey,” Ray rephrased as they began their three-man drunken lurch toward the exit.

“I hate _watching_ hockey,” Mark slurred, nodding sloppily. “Hate it. Wanna _play_.”

Fraser's glance over at Ray was pained. "I… see," he said.

"Yeah," Ray replied. "So maybe all those complimentary tickets he gets should go to… other people. Like, I don't know, a raffle. Sick kids. Something."

“We can certainly find a way to do that,” Fraser nodded.

“Great,” Ray agreed.

They paused in front of a revolving door.

“Should we go through here?” Fraser asked.

“I don't know,” Ray replied. “He might not be able to handle it right now. There's a side door,” Ray nodded. "Let's try that."

They made it out to the GTO and Ray made an instant decision to put Mark in back, despite his height. Right now he seemed pretty likely to lie down.

Instead, as they drove back to Mark’s entirely normal, even possibly low-end apartment, Mark sat up and his hand somehow kept finding Fraser’s shoulder. Or the back of his neck. Or his knuckles grazed Fraser’s cheek. Or he touched Fraser's earlobe. Or stroked Fraser's throat.

With each additional touch, Ray felt his grip on the steering wheel tighten. He tried to breathe slowly and evenly and remember the inhibition-lowering aspects of alcohol.

“Ben,” Mark murmured. “Ben.”

Fraser flinched a few times at Mark’s touch and tone, more because they occurred in front of Ray than because they occurred at all, it seemed.

“What else, exactly,” Fraser asked Ray, his voice positively snippy, “did you two discuss?”

"Oh, pond hockey in Canada... driving pucks into snowbanks... how well you knew each other back then," Ray replied casually.

Fraser swatted Mark's hand off his cheek. "C'mon, Ben," Mark murmured.

"Do tell," Fraser replied coolly to Ray as if Mark had not even spoken.

"Fraser, calm down," Ray sighed, trying to loosen his white-knuckled grasp of the steering wheel. "He made it clear that was all in the past."

Fraser blinked and then his expression softened as Mark’s hand stroked his throat again. "Ben, oh Ben," Mark whispered.

"And that it could happen tomorrow if you just gave the word," Ray added darkly, his chest heavy and tight, the steering wheel so hard in his hands it seemed like it should break. It didn’t.

* * *

"I’ll just get him up to his apartment and into bed," Fraser said quietly as he and Ray supported Mark Smithbauer into the lobby of his apartment building. Mark kept trying to open his eyes, but they kept drifting blearily shut. 

"Do what you gotta," Ray said shortly. "You need help getting him up there?"

Fraser struggled with getting Mark’s keys out of his pockets and finding the right ones. Fraser glanced up at Ray and shook his head.

"No. There's an elevator. And I've been there before. I—I mean—"

"Fine," Ray said shortly. "Gimme those," he growled.

He snatched the keys from Fraser, quickly sizing them up. He quickly found the correct key for the locked inner door in front of them, unlocked it, and held it open.

"Thank you, Ray," Fraser said gratefully.  
  
Ray handed the keys back. "You need a ride back to the Consulate?"

Fraser’s cheeks colored in the bright lobby lights. "I thought I’d walk."

"Okay," Ray said shortly. "Sounds like I’m no longer needed here." He slipped out from under Mark's big arm and took a step back as Fraser and Mark began to cross the threshold.

"Ray," Fraser said quickly holding the door. The hand of Mark’s long arm over his shoulder draped over his chest. "You've been... very kind and understanding of my friend. I appreciate it."

Ray paused, feeling guilty. That hadn’t exactly been his motivation. "Uh, you're welcome."

"I’ll see you tomorrow?" Fraser asked.

Ray nodded, not meeting Fraser’s eyes. "Yeah, ‘course."

"Very good."

"Okay. See ya."

"Good bye."

"Ray!" Mark slurred, almost overbalancing himself and Fraser as he turned one last time, his red eyes barely open. "Thanks, man."

"Yeah, uh, okay, Mark," Ray replied, backing away. "You take care."

Fraser let the door close between them and he and Mark lurched toward the elevator. Ray fled for his car.

* * *

He didn’t go home. He parked in an inconspicuous spot, turned the GTO’s lights off, put on the parking brake, and left her in neutral with the engine running. Ray already knew from the apartment number on Mark's mailbox where in the building Mark's unit was, and he was in the right position to observe the windows.

The lights were on in Mark’s apartment. Ray reclined his seat a bit and kept watch. He wondered how late Fraser would stay. The foregone conclusion felt awful and yet somehow right in a very bewildering way. He slammed his fist on the seat beside him.

At some indeterminate point of bright darkness before dawn, Ray twitched awake. The lights were off in Smithbauer's apartment. He had fallen asleep and now had no idea of Fraser's departure. He sighed and slid a hand down his face, then rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, the needle on the gas gauge was close to E. Ray swore softly and put his seat belt on.

* * *

"Look, I understand that your situation has changed, but the visa requirements are very specific," Ray heard Fraser say as he let himself in to the Consulate with his credit card.

Ray paused in the foyer, looking into the parlor where Fraser and Mark Smithbauer stood talking, listening intently. They didn’t yet know he was there, and he suddenly wanted to keep it that way.

"You could come with me," Mark urged. "What do you have here, really?" he said.

Ray’s stomach dropped and a cold feeling settled into all his limbs.

"I have friends. Colleagues. Common interests."

"Yeah, but we’ve got..." Mark trailed off.

"You should prepare yourself for both possibilities." Fraser's voice was encouraging but there was weariness in his tone. "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

"It’s always the worst," Mark said glumly.

"I think you’ll find it’s not as bad as you think," Fraser said kindly. Ray glanced around the corner of the foyer in time to see Fraser put his hand on Mark’s upper arm.

Then Mark suddenly leaned forward and kissed Fraser on the lips. Fraser’s body language segued rapidly from surprise to responding to denial and he just as suddenly stepped back and extricated himself from the hands and arms sliding around him.

"Mark, no, I—" Fraser protested.

Ray clenched his whole body to stop himself from rushing around the corner to kick Mark in the head. Nice idea, but he’d probably wind up the one kicked.

"Ben, I thought—"

"But we didn’t—"

"I thought you didn’t want to because I was so drunk." Mark hung his head.

"Well," Fraser said weakly, "there was that. But..."

He trailed off and there was a long, uncomfortable silence for a moment.

"Ben, I... I'm sorry, I thought—but I guess..."

"I... there’s someone else," Fraser finally admitted softly.

Ray’s heart began to pound. Another one? Jesus, would it ever stop? He tried to take deep, slow breaths and calm down so he could find a good time in their conversation to slip back out the Consulate door without Fraser knowing he had even been there.

"I'm very flattered," Fraser was saying. "You must know—no one will ever occupy the place in my heart that you do. You were... my first love."

Ray’s hands clenched into fists; his credit card almost broke and the edges cut painfully into his palms and fingers.

"I just keep screwing up," Mark said morosely.

"Not at all," Fraser said soothingly. "You’ve made some mistakes, you've accepted the consequences. This return to Canada, if that is what happens, may turn out for the best."

Ray listened to Fraser’s typical silver-lining perspective and silently shook his head. Mark murmured something else and Ray took that opportunity to slip out the door, shutting it slowly and silently behind him. He fled to the GTO and raced home, bitterly disappointed but somehow strangely relieved that his plan to finally put himself on the line and express his feelings to Fraser had been thwarted by Mark’s presence and the unwelcome revelation that Fraser already had someone else.

* * *

He was on his fourth beer when there was a knock at his apartment door. Which wasn’t supposed to happen because this was a secure building, and in order to get in to the interior stairwells/elevator/halls, one needed a key for the front door.

Ray stood up and in his stockinged feet walked silently over to the door. He looked through the peephole.

Red. Fraser, who looked directly into the peephole viewer. "Hi, Ray. May I come in, please?" he asked politely.

Ray pressed his forehead to the door. "Fine," he said. He stepped back and then turned the locks. "It's open," he added as he returned to the sofa and sank down on it with his beer.

Fraser entered Ray's living room and removed his Stetson. He stood before Ray, turning it in his hands. Ray drank more of his beer. It felt like he should say something but he resented having to start the conversation, and he was uneasy with why Fraser was even here.

Finally Fraser spoke, just as Ray took another sip of beer. "Eavesdropping is, aside from the ethics, likely to result in gaps in information."

He didn't look angry, but Ray's stomach lurched and he almost choked and coughed his beer all over the coffee table. When he had swallowed and wiped his mouth, Ray looked up at Fraser warily.

"What difference does it make?" Ray shrugged.

"Quite a bit, I think," Fraser said, looking down at his Stetson and turning it nervously in his hands.

"Why? You have someone else. Problem solved." Ray’s undercover training helped him maintain a callous tone and casually take another sip of beer.

"I have... feelings for someone else," Fraser clarified carefully. "I don’t have... him." He glanced significantly at Ray.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Ray felt his body tensing; his mind raced with thoughts of what on earth Fraser wanted from him right now.

"Well, what am I supposed to do about it?" he finally asked irritably. "Help you with this one, too?" He shook his head. "Uh-uh. You’re on your own there." He gulped down the rest of his beer and slammed the empty on the coffee table defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, I thought you might have some advice," Fraser said. "May I?" he indicated the sofa next to Ray.

"Fine, whatever," Ray muttered. "Advice. I don’t know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly Mr. Lucky in that department. Not sure how useful my advice would be."

Fraser placed his Stetson on the coffee table. "On the contrary, you’re well-acquainted with his mercurial mood swings."

"Mood swings. Hmph. What else?"

"Well," Fraser scraped an eyebrow with his thumb, "he’s a detective. He’s very good at feeling one way and acting another. He's currently undercover."

Ray grunted noncommittally. "And?"

"He’s a very good dancer, and he has a Champion spark plug tattoo on one shoulder," Fraser said, looking down at his clasped hands.

Ray sat straight up, and Fraser’s gaze rose to meet Ray’s. His blue eyes were darker, smokier in the dimmer light in Ray’s apartment.

"Fraser, I—what?" Ray’s mouth went dry.

The corners of Fraser’s lips lifted in a tiny smile. "Would that be so surprising?"

Ray swallowed painfully, his whole throat dry now. "I—I thought you—"

"I have," Fraser’s voice dropped to a whisper as a warm blush broke out high on his cheeks, "feelings for you, Ray."

"Oh, my God, I’ve been shot," Ray groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists tightly. "I’ve been shot and this is _the life Ray didn't have but really secretly wanted_ last temptation thing your brain does right before death, that seems so long, but it's really only seconds before your lights go out forever. That's what this is."

He slumped back flat on the couch.

There was a sound of fabric on fabric and weight shifting on the couch around him. Ray opened his eyes cautiously, and Fraser’s face was alarmingly close above him.

"You have not been shot. You are very much alive and uninjured," Fraser whispered. "May I?" he asked.

The nervous note of pleading in his voice finally pierced Ray’s disbelief. "You really want to?"

Fraser nodded solemnly. "I really do."

"Okay," Ray said.

Fraser tilted his head and settled his lips against Ray’s. His nervous determination combined with Ray’s joyous urgency and their kiss quickly became hot and wet and fierce.

Fraser suddenly pulled back.

"Wha...?" Ray’s lips searched blindly for Fraser's.

"Ray. Ray, Ray, Ray, Ray."

"What?" Ray’s eyes snapped open. "Why aren't you kissing me?" he demanded. "We barely got started!"

"Could we make you a pot of coffee?" Fraser asked.

Ray blinked. "Um, yeah, sure. But why?"

Fraser sat back, grasping Ray’s hand to pull him up to a sitting position. "I prefer partners capable of consent."

His mouth twitched, but his eyes softened as they met Ray’s.

"It’s a twelve-cup coffee maker," Ray said, springing up from the couch. "I’ll drink an entire pot if you want."

Fraser stood easily. "That won’t be necessary." He smiled and Ray grinned back.

They headed into Ray’s kitchen nook.

 

 


End file.
